


The World's Angriest Boy In The World

by versaphile



Category: Legion (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, David Haller POV, Despair, Drugs, First Meetings, Gen, Medication, Pre-Canon, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Schizophrenia, Season/Series 01, Self-Medication, Suicide Attempt, Telekinesis, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 11:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14354673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: David, to despair and back again; or: the true story of how David ended up in Clockworks.Spoilers for season 1, but set before the series starts. TW: canon attempted suicide, lots of bad thoughts.





	The World's Angriest Boy In The World

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Elenca and Bam4Me for betaing!

He isn't angry. He _isn't_ , no matter what Doctor Poole says.

It's. He's. 

Words are... hard, sometimes. Most of the time. The drugs do too much and not enough. Pink pills, yellow, white, orange, blue, calming blue drops vaporizing into the air, into his lungs, dissolving him into placid bubbles that rise and rise and _pop_.

The mist of himself dissipating as his eyes close.

Relief.

But relief never lasts long. He becomes solid and so does his mind, or as solid as it could ever be when he's a walking mental ward, standing-room-only voices whispering yelling _accusing_ , the pressure building up like a shaken bottle until inevitably he--

He's not angry. Not violent. Not that Doctor Poole believes him. Not that he'd believe him now. His knuckles are scraped raw, dried blood crusted on the insides of his fingers. 

It's Doctor Poole's fault, anyway, his fault for asking. He shouldn't have asked. It isn't safe, he should have known that. What good is he if he doesn't know?

One last score. That's all it is. Benny told him it would be enough. David watches as Benny trades a handful of old coins to the Greek for vials of blissful blue. They should have just traded in another stove. Benny says the old guy deserved it anyway, because if he was any good David wouldn't need the drugs. The good drugs. The blue drugs.

Why is it always blue?

The nest of audio tape rustles in the breeze. It's beautiful, reflecting the streetlights like water, and David wants to climb back into it, curl up inside it, drown down under the surface. It would be quiet there, he thinks. David doesn't know what quiet is. His world is always so loud, so noisy, so crowded. It's relentless and he's tired of it all, so tired.

He thinks he got all of them. All of the tapes. His _confessions_. He's not entirely sure what he confessed (not sure at all) but he knows it was bad, knows the gut-wrenching terror that pervaded him, compelled him to--

He took them back, though, all his words. He runs his hands through them and picks them up, lets them fly into the breeze, coils of tape littering the wasteland where the junkies and the dealers live. Where he lives.

No. Where he should live. He's just another junkie. Garbage. Broken. He wonders what the point of his life ever was?

Benny laughs, triumphant. "Come on, man, let's go back to your place and celebrate!"

David smiles for him, eager despite everything for the promise of those little blue drops. Even if it won't last, even if it's never enough, never a solution, never _permanent_.

One last score. Then something has to change. 

It's almost dawn when they get back to his apartment block, Benny's pockets rattling with vials. They wait for Philly to leave for work, then slip in and set themselves up on the floor as always, the friendly green frog bathing them in a steady, dense fog. David surrenders himself to it and time slips away, evaporates like everything else until he's light as air, the voices dulled to grumbling murmurs, almost soothing.

A spike of absolute terror paralyzes him, lightning burning away his bliss and leaving him scarred, frantic. Benny tries to calm him down, _just calm down, man_ , but David's heart is frantic, beating to burst from his chest. His lungs are burning and he can't catch his breath, can't speak, and suddenly everything's back, every loud voice amplified until he's certain his ears will bleed. It _hurts_ , oh god it hurts.

White steam surrounds him, blinds him, and he tastes the sweet artificial flavor of the Vapor as Benny all but shoves the frog into his face. As the terror fades, he breathes deep, deep, deep. Too much. He passes out.

He wakes to the smell of food. Pizza. He's starving, ravenous. When did he last eat? He rolls over and up, grabs the offered slice from Benny's hand. The flimsy paper plate is already sodden with grease. Everything tastes amazing until it's in his stomach, and then he lies back down, fighting nausea.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"You and your bad trips," Benny laughs, shaking his head. He's used to David's fits by now, used to managing him in a way that Philly never does. They broke up but she always comes back, always so full of hope that he'll get better. That he can get better. That he isn't just what he is.

David isn't sure if he needs her hope or despises it.

"Here," Benny says, pulling one of David's prescription bottles out of his pocket and tossing it over.

"Stop stealing my drugs," David grumbles, fumbling with the lid. Takes two and swallows them dry. They stick in his throat and he grabs Benny's beer to wash them down. His stomach doesn't appreciate that much but he doesn't care. He screws the lid back on and throws the pill bottle back at Benny.

It's going to take a while for the antipsychotics to kick in, but he doesn't want more vapor. Benny watches TV, the volume low, while David lies curled on the floor and waits for his existence to become fractionally tolerable.

In the lull between medications, in the aftermath of his fit, he feels like shit. Sour adrenaline, his body sore all over, flashes of intrusive thoughts he can't control. But he feels strangely lucid, too, and wonders what it would be like to feel lucid all the time. Clear and unclouded. Clean.

He'll never be clean. You can't unbreak an egg, and God made this omelette by smashing it on a filthy pavement. He doesn't think Philly will ever understand. No one does.

The pills kick in and kick out his clarity, numbing fog rushing in to replace it. But as always, he only feels half-numb, the wrong half, and they're not enough. He breathes more Vapor and numbs the rest of him.

He smells cake. The door opens.

Philly.

"An astronaut approaches with baked goods!"

David reaches for the cake, but Benny gets there first, crawling over the furniture to snag the blue box, then stuffing his face. 

Philly protests, then kneels down. "David, are you okay?" Before he can find the words to answer, she turns and rises, muttering denials as she grabs the frog from the floor where it's still pumping out Vapor. Benny was right, it was a great score. _Action movie, one last job and I'm out._

Benny chases after Philly, fighting over the frog and abandoning the cake on the floor. David scoops some frosting with his finger and eats it. The blue tastes almost the same artificial sweetness as the Vapor. 

"Get out!" Philly screams, shoving Benny into the door. "Get out get out!"

"All right, all right!" Benny throws his hands up in surrender. "Just lemme get my coat--"

She grabs his coat and throws it at him. The pills clatter in their bottle, the vapor glass clinks. David reaches for both, but they're already gone.

"David," Philly sighs, tears of frustration and anger smearing her mascara. "You have to stop."

She's pretty when she's angry. He smiles at her, still wrapped in the Vapor's embrace. She doesn't smile back. With a huff she rises and walks away. She comes back and puts a blanket over him, then walks away again.

He dozes, sweetness on his tongue. It's still daylight when he wakes again, but he was out long enough to be abandoned by the Vapor. He groans and stumbles to the bathroom, feeling worse now than he did when this started. When did it start?

He washes his hands, staring at himself in the mirror. Listening to the whispers.

_Garbage. Broken._

Philly shouldn't have come back. She wants to save him but he can't be saved. There's nothing in him worth saving, nothing that can be pulled free of the muck intact. Twenty four and what has he done with his life? Nothing. Worse than nothing. Been a burden to everyone around him. His sister, his parents. Doctor Poole. Oh god, what did he do to Doctor Poole? He looks at his hands, the knuckles scabbed, traces of dried blood still flaking from his fingers.

A flash of memory, Doctor Poole on the floor of his office, face covered in blood. Revulsion twists David's gut. He tries to vomit, but the pizza was hours ago and he brings up nothing but bile. He didn't... He wouldn't...

He did. Oh god, he did.

He should run, hide. Isn't that what guilty people do? But what's the point? Maybe this is the solution. The police will take him away, lock him up. Stop him from hurting anyone else. 

Amy will be so disappointed. She tries so hard to help him be normal. Functional. She helped him get through college until they expelled him. She helped him get a job until he lost it. She helps him pay the rent for his apartment. But none of it stops the voices, the visions, the _fear_. He's sick, has always been sick, will always be sick. This is never going to stop unless something stops him.

He hears the phone ringing, hears Philly answer, bright at first and then low with worry. This is it. It's over. David's knees nearly give out with relief.

A knock on the bathroom door. "David? Can you come out?"

She always gets quiet when she's upset. Careful. As if tightly controlling herself will somehow control him too.

He opens the door, pretending innocence, ignorance. Her eyes look down, catch on his injured hands. She looks up, alarmed by the physical proof of his actions. 

"David," she says, very calm. "The police called. They said... they said you attacked Doctor Poole. Robbed him."

"No," David protests, but it's weak even to his own ears. "I would never-- Is he all right?"

"He's in the hospital," Philly says, and it's the wrong answer, wrong wrong _wrong_. "They think he'll pull through, but--"

David turns away, panic and frustration building. He doesn't want Doctor Poole to die, but if he isn't dead it won't be enough. The police won't lock him up and throw away the key if he's not dead.

"Tell me what happened." Her voice is so gentle. "Please. Was it an accident? Was it the voices? I knew Doctor Poole should have increased your medication." 

Her hand touches his back and he whirls away. She doesn't understand, she never understands. She's so stupid with her stupid hope and stupid dreams, so stupid that she can't see they're not for him, that he can never ever have them because he's sick, _he's sick and he'll never get better._

"I don't want to talk about it!" he shouts, stomping into the kitchen to get away from her. She doesn't follow and he's almost disappointed. But the voices are getting louder as his pills wear off, and like a stupid junkie he let Benny take the rest. _Stupid useless junkie piece of--_

A noise distracts him from his self-punishment, a metal rattling. At first he thinks of his pills, rattling in their plastic bottle, but no. It's the breadbox jittering on the counter. An earthquake? He stares in bewilderment as it pops open, revealing stale bagels.

Everything goes quiet. And then--

 _An explosion._ Not fire but plastic, metal, wood as every drawer, every cabinet flies open and vomits its contents at him. Bowls and spoons and dry pasta whirl around him in a maelstrom. A knife slices through the air, just catching his cheek, then embeds itself into the wall, swaying from the force of its strike. The kitchen door slams shut as he stares, frozen.

_Is this real? Is this happening? No, it can't be, it's a hallucination, not real, not real. Can't be real._

He screws his eyes shut and tries to make it stop. It's not real, so he just has to force his mind to stop believing in it and it will go away. That was what Doctor Poole said. He just has to make it go away. Go away. _Go away! GO AWAY!_

He screams, and the scream feeds on itself, terror burning through him like lighting. His heart, his lungs, every muscle tenses with fear as utter certain doom swallows him whole. 

Just when he thinks he'll finally break, just when he thinks his heart will seize and stutter and stop forever, the terror releases him. The whirl of kitchen matter clatters to the floor with a terrible crash, and then he follows it, the world greying at the edges as he curls into himself, just another broken piece of rubble among a kitchen full of broken pieces of rubble.

He only realizes that Philly had been frantically banging on the kitchen door when she stops, stumbling through the door pale and wide-eyed. She hurries over to him, nearly tripping over the mess, and searches him for injuries. When she can't find anything external but the cut, she tries to soothe him. She promises she'll talk to the police, she'll talk to Doctor Poole, they'll find the right combination of pills that will stop this, that will stop his suffering, his madness.

He nods in dumb agreement, lacking the strength to fight. The worse he gets, the more she needs to save him. He lets her take care of him, lets her refill his prescription and lets her feed him pills and water. He lays down in their bed and lets the drugs numb him, but they never numb him enough to stop the voices, the visions, the full-blown hallucinations that somehow become reality. 

It's dark when he wakes, the clock shining a red 3:05. He blinks slowly at it, more sluggish than usual from the extra medication. But a single clear thought had woken him, cutting through the fog like a lighthouse beam.

Clarity.

He looks at the bedside table again, picks up the bottle of pills. Shakes them. Almost a full bottle. That will probably be enough, even if he has worked up a tolerance to the drugs after so many years...

The whispers are muted, but he can hear them shifting, becoming concerned. No, they tell him. Don't do that. Not good, not good for you, for us.

No, he realizes, but not in agreement. He needs something faster, more certain. If he takes the pills, they can still pump his stomach. There can't be any going back.

He rises slowly, quietly, not wanting to wake Philly, not wanting to miss this chance before it slips away. The voices become agitated, realizing what he's up to as he plans it out, as he creeps across the carpet in bare feet and out of the bedroom.

_What are you doing?_

_Stop it!_

There's a ladder, an extension cord. It's long, it won't break. He has to do this quickly. He climbs the ladder and ties the cord around a beam. Makes a loop. Puts his neck into it and pushes the ladder away with his toes.

_Loser!_

He drops, but his neck doesn't snap. Instead he hangs there, slowly strangled by his own weight. Just a little longer, a little longer and it will all be over. The voices yell at him, screaming in his head as the dark room edges with black. A little longer...

A little...

longer...

...

..

.

He wakes up in a hospital.

He's alive, which means he failed. His throat hurts. He feels astonishingly numb, which is the only good thing. They must have given him a _lot_ of drugs. Even the voices are sluggish, molasses-slow.

Amy's worried face rises into view. "David? Can you hear me?"

He tries to speak, but his tongue feels thick and heavy. He gives a weak grunt, which seems to be enough for her.

"Thank god," she says, and slumps over him.

He tries to reach for her, to comfort her, but he can't even do that. They put him in restraints even with the massive amount of sedatives they pumped into his system. He wonders if he put up a fight while he was unconscious. It wouldn't be the first time.

He's thirsty and she feeds him an ice chip, the practice familiar. He tries again to speak. "Philly?"

Amy looks away. "She found you. She thought you were..." She wipes her eyes, already red from hours of crying. That was David's fault, again, as always. "I don't think she's coming back this time."

David gives a hum of assent. Poor Philly. He hadn't thought... hadn't let himself think of what it would do to her to find him that way. Of course she saved him. The falling ladder must have woken her up.

"David," Amy begins, but trails off, at a loss for words. She swallows. "What you did to Doctor Poole, and now this... They've decided that you're a danger. To yourself. To others."

David blinks at her, trying to understand. It's just so hard, his thoughts are just as slow as the voices, pushing hard just to stand still. Amy doesn't finish, seeming to implore him with her eyes. Visions swim in his mind: a building, patients in bright, warm colors, calming green plants, orderlies, cups full of little pills, pink, yellow, white, blue.

 _Oh_ , he realizes. And smiles.

"David?" Amy asks, concerned.

"'s good," he slurs, relief flooding through him. Amy, Philly, Doctor Poole. They all wanted to help him function, to make him normal. But he'll never be normal. A place like this, they know what to do with broken people. Drugs. Management. Institutionalization.

He never realized it would feel so good to give up.

Amy frowns and starts explaining things to him that he somehow already knows. About Clockworks, about their treatment program. They're the experts, Amy says. They'll take care of you.

David knows it's just another prison. But he's been a prisoner of his mind his whole life. What's one more layer of bars? At least this way he won't have to pretend anymore, won't have to try to get better. He's being thrown away and they both know it, and it's fine. You break a plate, you throw it away and get a new one.

If no one expects anything of him, he won't be able to disappoint them. Won't be able to hurt them. Maybe they'll even find the right combination of drugs to stop the voices. Stop the fear. That would be nice.

It doesn't matter that he's cooperative, but the orderlies seem to appreciate it anyway. He's too addled with drugs to stand, so they dress him in his new clothes, soft orange pants and jacket, red shirt. His obedience makes them sympathetic.

The first weeks pass in a pleasant haze. He does everything he's supposed to. He doesn't want to fight, doesn't want to leave. He takes his meds, he goes to his sessions, tells Doctor Kissinger about the voices, the fear, the drugs, the suicide attempt. The bruises around his throat fade and vanish. He feels almost normal, or at least how he imagines normal must feel.

And then he has the nightmare. 

The cord is back around his neck, choking him tighter and tighter. Yellow eyes in the darkness, cruel laughter, and the strength being drained from him. The fear burns through the drugs like lightning, searing him. He lashes out, desperate to survive, to _live_. The voices scream in his head, scream and scream _so loud, it hurts so much._

He wakes screaming, everything in his room destroyed, glass broken, wood shattered, metal bent. Strong orderlies struggle to hold him down while a nurse prepares a sedative needle. 

_"What the hell is this guy?"_

_"I don't know!"_

_"Keep him still!"_

No more sympathy now. They drug him, then drug him again when it's not enough. Once he's down they keep him down, and it's a week before he surfaces enough for basic self-awareness. He clumsily wipes the drool from his face and takes stock.

He's angry now, finally truly angry, but mostly at himself. He was wrong. This place can't help him either. Nothing can help him. He walked himself into a trap and it shut around him, and no one is coming to save him. 

There's no hope to be found in Clockworks, but isn't that what he wanted? Isn't hope what drove him up that ladder? Despair should be his friend, his comfort, his Vapor, numbing all the parts of him that the other drugs can't reach.

He's been chasing oblivion for so long, thinking it was what he wanted. Just for everything to stop, for once, for a pure, clean second, to just _stop._

But the truth is that he doesn't want oblivion. He wants control over his life, his mind, his existence. He wants to be more than a broken plate, a useless junkie, a mental patient. He wants to be good for someone else instead of bad. He wants to _live._

He just doesn't know how.

He tries to stand up from his wheelchair, but he's still so drugged that he nearly topples over. Something catches him, pushes him back into the chair.

"Whoa there, cowboy," says a voice. A woman, maybe a little younger than him, dark-haired and wiry. Her orange and red clothes match his own. She slinks as she moves, and chews a red Twizzler like a cigar. "You're not ready to ride that horse."

David stares at her blankly. He tries to make his tongue work. His mouth is dry, but Amy isn't there to give him ice chips anymore.

"You awake in there?" the woman asks, tilting her head. David manages a nod, a blink. He raises a trembling hand. She takes it, shakes it.

"I'm Lenny. Nice to meet ya. You're David, right? Everyone's been talking about you. You're the most exciting thing to happen to this place in, oh, _ever_."

David swallows, musters some spit. "Yeah?" he croaks.

"Hell yeah," Lenny laughs. It's a nice laugh, friendly. "Stick with me, kid, I'll teach you the ropes. We freaks have to look out for each other, ya know."

They sit and talk for a while. Or rather Lenny talks and David listens, keeps her company. It's good. He tries to contribute more, to give back, but words are hard with the drugs. They do too much and not enough. The voices are already muttering again, and he knows the fear will be back, bringing with it all the pain and horror he's desperate to escape. But maybe he's not alone here. Maybe in this place, in this safe little trap, he can take the time to figure out how to survive, and then one day...

Maybe one day he'll be free of all his prisons.

_I'm sorry, Doctor Poole. You were right._

David _has_ always been angry. The World's Angriest Boy in the World, that's him. But he was angry about the wrong things: love, hope, dreams. Angry that he had to try for them when he was doomed to fail.

And yet now, having failed in the worst possible way, the truth is he's not ready to stop trying. He'd thought he was but he was wrong. He just needed something to change.

"Thanks, Lenny," he manages, meeting her eyes. They're red-rimmed, a little hazy from her own cocktail of drugs, but they're kind, vulnerable. Maybe even a little lucid. It's not much, but he'll take all the clarity he can get these days. 

He wonders how long she's been here. Wonders if either of them will ever leave. Maybe he's a hopeless case, maybe they both are. But the thought of giving up on either of them -- that's what makes him angry, now. Because no one deserves to be thrown away, forgotten. No one.

Not even himself.

**Author's Note:**

> The Suicide Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals. Call 1-800-273-8255.


End file.
